Arrow
by suicidemouse
Summary: His gaze ran up the arrow, followed its line across the floor, and crawled up the wall. Snatching the paper up with him, he rose to his feet and tore out the open window. :: Oneshot, young Magnus, rated for implications of abuse, etc.


**A/N: **_ Written just to show my idea of what his life was like at this point. Poor Magnus. D8 I imagine him to be about 12 or so here. He's been living with the church fathers for around 2 years. I got his story out of CoB, I just fleshed it out a little bit. Also, warning: MAGNUS IS BORDERING ON SACRELIGIOUS IN THIS FIC. This does not in any way express my feelings about religion. I'm only trying to get behind the character here. Which, by the way, I do not own. All from Cassandra Clare._

_It's about 1720, I think. I know he lies about his age, but for this fic's sake I'll just say he's about 300. I picture him living in a small English settlement, though I have no idea why he'd be part Asian if that was so. –shrugs- And sorry, I don't know much about his time period. Excuse/correct me on any inaccuracies, please. x.x_

_Lengthy, so sorry. AND. This is oldoldold. Seriously, I wrote this in January or December or something. Just found it and fixed it up. (-shrugs- I liked Selah. She's cute.)_

_

* * *

  
_

He lay in the shadows of the attic, coiled up into himself as if he hoped that he could make the visibility of his breath vanish. There was no way that was ever going to happen, and Magnus Bane was fully aware of that. Save for beneath the frosty glares of his parents, the church was the most frigid place that he had lived as of yet. Hell, he couldn't even manage to get rid of a single goosebump as he compacted himself farther.

Gangly limb tangled with gangly limb as Magnus folded his arms across his scrawny chest. He could feel the coldness of the room, which wasn't only wintry because of temperature. All his life, Magnus had been raised to feel that churches were the houses of God, that they were warm, loving places that would nurture and protect you. _So why does this place feel so foreboding?_ he wondered to himself, letting his eyes slide open and amble uneasily around the room. Even with the restricted bit of moonlight that spilled through the thin curtain on the window of his upper floor domain, the boy's catlike eyes could take in everything. He saw the candles and matches across the room, the wax stains on the floor, the Holy Books that he was forced to listen to Preachers read from day after day. He supposed that was one of the reasons the church Fathers kept him around – Magnus could tell if that lump in the dark corner was a blanket or an old sack, or if that thing scurrying under the floorboards was a dreaded rat or a common mouse that the cats could take care of. He had inhuman powers of perception.

Well, that wasn't always true, he thought to himself with what might have been the beginning of a grin. Or, if it was, he didn't always act on what his acute senses told him.

After all, did he listen to what his intuition was telling him when it told him to run away and never come back? No. If he had done that, his mother might still be alive. If he had gone ahead and let his father kill him, an honorable, faithful and loving man would still walk this earth while his demon-eyed son justly passed into Hell for all eternity. Magnus crossed himself bitterly for his thoughts, more out of habit than an action of repenting. It wasn't his job to play God.

"No," he half-spat, half-whispered to himself. "'Tis my job in life to simply do good deeds for those who loathe me. I am intended to hope that God will take pity on me, for I did not choose to be a child of Lucifer, and lessen my suffering. I'm supposed to just… just…" Magnus shook his head, his voice thickening with anger. "I don't even _know_."

Father Aaron would surely sit him in front of the altar for hours if he heard him speak such blasphemy. Magnus scoffed at the idea. He had given up on God long ago. If God was up there, if He cared, why were his parents dead? Why was he something he hated – something everyone else hated? Why had little Shiloh died? As far as Magnus was concerned, God owed him an apology and an explanation.

"Magnus," he heard a small, familiar voice murmur from the darkness, "do not say such things with malice in your voice. God will hear you." The girl sniffed and was interrupted by a few coughs. Magnus winced – he knew that Selah merely had a winter cold, but it reminded him far too much of her deceased elder brother. "Then He'll take offense," she continued in a whisper. "And you will forsake all of the hope that the Fathers have given to us of being taken to Heaven to serve Him."

Magnus didn't have the heart to contradict the little warlock girl as she began to whisper some quiet prayers of forgiveness for him. Selah still had such faith. Granted, she was only seven, but how did she continue to believe when eight-year-old Shiloh, who had been his sister's only thing to hold on to, had caught the horrid fever and passed?

The two had a story much similar to his own – if not slightly less unpleasant. Their parents, who were religious folk, had been terrified of the two's startlingly Hellish-looking features. Shiloh's blue-black hair in combination with Selah's bright blonde had drawn curious stares when the brown-haired couple was seen with their children. The characteristics the two did share were no less abnormal – their violet eyes, cream-colored skin, and almost twice as many teeth as the average child. Beaten and hated, the little warlocks had run to the only people who did not look upon them with scorn – the local church Fathers.

Magnus had been born to Vashti and Abijah Byrne, the most religious couple within the town perimeters. They had gasped in horror when they saw his feline eyes and thrown him out in the cold snow, but his father had eventually come back for him – more than could be said for some of the other cat-eyed children that Magnus sometimes found lying facedown on streets at times (a sign that his true, demonic father still came by town once in a while). For years, he eagerly prayed up to the God that his parents told him of, oblivious to their forced care and the disapproving looks of others. It wasn't until the boy was five that he had begun to do magic.

It started out harmlessly enough – a little mouse scurried through his fingers, and Magnus, before he knew what he was doing, stretched out his hands and with a _pop_, the fur covering the poor creature's head vanished. He never found out if Vashti, who threw every creature out the door of their house the instant she spotted it, had discovered the atrocity. But things certainly got worse.

Things began to die. The family cat died. All of the fish in his family's portion of the river came up to float on the surface of the water. Birds dropped dead from the sky the very second they passed over the Bane roof. Next was his mother, who a traumatized six-year-old Magnus found hanging from a barn rafter by her scarf.

The minute Magnus began to pray for Vashti's soul that night, Abijah had hollered at him, "_This is all your fault, demon scum!"_ and landed a true farmer's blow over his son's head.

But it took four more years for Magnus to get it. It took him killing his father unintentionally, just as he had slaughtered his mother, for it to sink in. The people at the church took him in, but he didn't understand why, when he was something so horrible and evil and worthless.

Magnus didn't hate God nearly as much as he hated himself.

He knew why Selah held on. Blind faith had become her new rock. Once she had been brought before some type of hope, she had begun to depend on it instead. She was just that type of person. Magnus wished he was.

He was about to go back to try to sleep again when he heard Selah finish her prayers. "Magnus?" she called out to him again.

"Yes?"

"Oh, that's good." The child sounded relieved. "I thought you weren't speaking to me."

Magnus thought about telling her, _What would be the point in that? Even if I don't reply, you never stop talking_. He resisted the temptation.

"Magnus?"

He snorted and rolled over on the hard wood floor to look at her. She was huddled in the farther corner of the room, where it was warmer. _That's right, because even when I'm not beaten, I'm still never the favorite. _Magnus shivered and wrapped his thin blanket more closely around his shoulders, snapping, "What is it, Selah?"

"May I ask you a question?" The girl looked tentative for once, her features in a meek, indecisive display.

"Even if I said no, you would query anyway." He paused, then reluctantly clarified, "So yes." He wondered what kind of inquiry Selah had devised now.

She stood and wandered over to him, her pale skin and hair catching the moonlight as she drifted by, as elegant as a swan. _And just as annoying, as well,_ Magnus added to himself. He noted how tired and sad she looked, and felt guilt nibble at the thin layer he had draped around his heart. He mentally swatted it away with a frown.

"Do you really hate God?"

The question caught Magnus off guard. Sure, he had confessed it to his attic mate before, and had even partially delighted in the look of horror on her little face. But he didn't like being questioned about what he felt. He just liked to _say_ it, whether it was what he really thought or not. It just made things easier and less painful. Did he?

"No," replied Magnus slowly, shaking his head as he considered the question. Selah looked so earnest, frightened, and _concerned._ "I don't hate Him."

Selah perked up a little. "That's - "

"Selah." He cut her off coldly. "I don't hate Him. I'm not sure I believe in Him."

She said nothing. Magnus studied Selah's little face as he stared at her. She looked thunderstruck, shocked that anyone in the world could actually not believe in the thing she adhered to. Could he really be so brutally honest with a little child? Could he really bring himself to shatter her faith? It had been all he held on to as a child, so how could he?

Easy. He would have rather known the truth, what he now believed, when he was little.

Selah choked. "How can you… I don't understand…" Her thin hair fell about her face as she knelt down on the floor before him, clasping her little hands together in prayer. "Lord, please forgive Magnus, he hasn't an idea what he's saying - "

"I know exactly what I'm saying, Sel."

"Give him the strength, Lord, the Faith - "

Magnus snapped. "SELAH," he hollered, "WHY DO YOU BOW DOWN TO WORSHIP A GOD WHO LET YOUR BROTHER DIE?"

Selah looked up at him, opening her violet eyes with a cry. "God _couldn't_ do anything! He couldn't interfere!" She struck out at the teenager's chest, angry now, her hands balled into fists. A newborn kitten could have done a better job of trying to knock him to the floor. "It was Shiloh's time, and Christ held his hand as he passed into… into…"

"That's right." Magnus's tone was lower now, dark. "Where did Shiloh go?"

She howled at him, landing a sharp blow on the bruise he already had on his upper shoulder that made him cringe. "To a better place than you're going, you jerk!"

"Selah! Magnus!"

Magnus grit his teeth and turned with Selah. Father Aaron stood hovering at the door, dressed in sleeping robes and a lit candle held in his short, solid fingers. His eyes were narrowed, and aiming glares that usually meant scrubbing the entire church from rafter to floorboard the next day right at both of them. The boy felt his cat's eyes lowering themselves to the wooden boards he was supposed to be asleep on. _Oops._ That seemed to be Selah's mentality as well as she shrank back. Father Aaron hated to be waken. _I am a busy man_, he would always say. _Busy doing God's work. I need my rest, so if it's the middle of the night, sleep it off._

"But Father," Selah blurted, crossing herself as she ignored Father Aaron's hurried shushing, "Magnus said he didn't believe in God! And then he said all sorts of awful things, horrible…"

Magnus felt his cheeks grow hot. He didn't have to look up at the man to know that the Father was shaking his head, and watching him with total dismay as Selah went on and on.

"Stand, boy." Magnus stumbled over his cold feet to do as the Father asked. "Come with me. Selah, go to sleep."

Selah started. "But - "

"Go back to sleep, child." Magnus risked a glance at Father Aaron. The candle light illuminated every line of the gray-haired man's face. He didn't look furious, but he didn't look quite happy with him, either. "Come with me, Bane."

Magnus gritted his teeth. Bane. He and Selah weren't the only ones Father Aaron had taken in over the years. It was truly a kind gesture, but they were required to give up their old names and don the surname of "Bane" upon becoming a personal bane of the Father's own life, something that had chagrined Magnus greatly.

Magnus almost tripped over his feet as he followed him out the door to the attic. It was small, barely noticeable in the building that neighbored the church. The narrow stairwell to the upper room was blocked off by a door that Father Aaron could hardly fit through. Small as he was, Magnus slipped behind him with no problem, shutting the door as he went. The room at the base of the stairs was virtually empty, save for a few chairs and a fire crackling in the hearth. Everything else was in another room – the Fathers liked to have their own place to relax and drink and read the Bible, or write drafts of sermons or whatever it was they did.

Surprised to see the fire, the boy blinked and looked to Father Aaron, to the fire, and back again. He felt the little bite of guilt again as the Father gave him a disapproving look. "I can never sleep with you two up there bickering all night. Now sit, boy," he said, gesturing to one of the chairs. Magnus stared at him, open-mouthed, for a moment, before he made a more exaggerated motion. "Go! Sit! Now!"

Blinking dumbly, Magnus did as he was told, wondering what kind of words were coming his way for _this_ lecture.

"Turn your chair to face mine."

Magnus dug his feet into the ground and pushed off, making his chair slide in a half-circle so his left arm was kept warm by the fire, but his front was being chilled by Father Aaron's stare. The cool brown eyes were contemplating him, calmly, yet Magnus could see little cracks in the façade that showed the anger he really felt underneath.

"Do you really not believe in our Lord, boy?"

Magnus felt a sick lurch in his stomach. What was he to say? Selah wouldn't lie – Father Aaron knew that much. If he himself said _no, I believe in Him,_ then the Father would know and he would be punished with twice the malevolence. "I refuse to bow down to a hand so wicked," he said truthfully, "that it would make all this happen." He almost braced himself for a blow – he'd never been hit by Father Aaron before, but there was a first time for everything.

No blow came. Magnus opened his eyes again to see the Father watching him, looking contemplative as opposed to enraged. "We tell you that God has no part in the wicked things, Magnus. Why do you not believe us?"

"All right, so He didn't _make _it happen, then." Magnus clenched his teeth in frustration. "He _let_ it happen. He let everything die, every_one _- "

"Are you talking about your parents, or Shiloh?"

"Both," spat Magnus. Just a word, yet it sounded like an expletive the way he said it. "If you ask me, either God doesn't care or He's not as perfect as the scripture makes Him out to be and He really fucked things up."

The Father's hand came up to cuff him around the ear. "Boy," he barked, "language!" Before Magnus could get an apology out, Aaron stood and began to pace. Feeling as though it was the appropriate thing to do, Magnus turned his back to the fire to watch him.

"You realize how seriously Selah takes all of this?" The man's voice was low. "If you infect her with your views - " _Infect?_ Magnus cringed – "then she'll have nothing left. All though," he added quickly, "you are living proof that you really can survive off of absolutely nothing."

"Hey - " Magnus began, his eyes narrowing.

Father Aaron held out his hand in an open-palmed "stop" gesture. "Let me finish! Now, I know why it troubles you so much that Shiloh passed away."

Magnus sat up straighter in his chair with a jerk, raising his head so the older man could see his widening, disbelieving eyes.

"He had something that you did not. He could manage to bound back after all that had happened to him." Rubbing his eyes, Father Aaron turned on Magnus sternly. "You wanted to _be_ him, Magnus. Face it. None of this is about what happened to you – it's about how you reacted to it. It's about your personality, and the issues you have with your own self."

"But I _can't_ face it," Magnus screamed, standing up so quickly that his chair toppled to the ground. It caught him by the ankle, and the warlock boy went to the floorboards as well with a small cry of pain. Raising his head and shaking the hair out of his eyes, he continued, almost choking over his words, "I can't face anything! I hate myself because I can't face anything, and I can't face anything because _I hate myself_!" Magnus clutched at his forehead. His fingers turned white and began to sting as he tangled them in his overgrown hair. He was finally figuring it out, figuring himself out as he thought out loud to Father Aaron. As he confessed everything – more to himself than anyone else. "I don't want to hate myself," he breathed. "But I have to. Look at me, Father. If I'm really even one of God's creations, then I'll bet He sure as hell isn't proud of me."

"Magnus," came Father Aaron's soft, kind voice, "what if you _could_ make Him proud of you? What if you _could_ be a good person?"

"Doesn't matter." Magnus said the words with a ringing finality, but he raised his head to the man nonetheless, his eyes beginning to sting.

Through the crazy blurriness that was crept its way into his vision, Magnus could see Father Aaron's face contorted into an expression of unwilling pity. His eyes seemed soft, yet his voice was like solid steel as he said, "Why not?"

"I don't know. _I_ don't even understand it myself." Magnus looked up at the man, who had knelt down on the floor in front of him. "Chances are you won't understand either. But who would, if there's something wrong with me?"

Father Aaron's sturdy hand fell on Magnus's shoulder, in comfort more than any type of sternness – though the implication was there. His voice was gentle, soft as could be, his mouth slowly forming the words in a whisper, "No. I understand. And so will you, some day."

--------------------------------

Magnus slid his eyes open, sitting up simultaneously as he did so. Daylight slid through the thin curtain on the attic window. The boy furrowed his brow as he furiously tried to remember what had happened the previous night.

Selah's blanket was crumpled up in the corner, the girl herself nowhere to be seen. Wondering how late he had slept, Magnus rubbed his eyes and wandered towards the door, killing as much time as possible. As much time as he had before he had to face the world again.

As soon as he put his hand on the doorknob, his stomach did a little flip, and Magnus knew something was wrong. He turned his hand, and his slid across the uneven metal, whispering softly. He thrashed his wrist, and nothing happened.

He was locked in. Magnus frowned – he hadn't even known the door _had_ an outside lock. Maybe it was just jammed, but he was trapped as it was. Wiggling his fingers and using the ever-evasive magic skills he half-pursued and half-feared would get him in huge trouble. Not knowing what to do, the boy swore and turned on his heels to walk over to the window –

Something crunched beneath his foot.

Startling and leaping back in alarm, Magnus moved so quickly that his legs twisted out from beneath him and he toppled to the floor. The room became a blur, and he could fix his eyes on what he had stepped on until he hit the floor with a loud _thunk_ and an audible groan.

Ignoring the pain in his upper arm muscles, Magnus rolled over to retrieve a piece of thick paper – the type of paper used in important books, he realized. Wait, no – it _was_ a page from a book. The Book. Magnus could feel his mouth fall open as he looked at the paper, a page torn from the Bible, and the huge black arrow drawn upon it.

His gaze ran up the arrow, followed its line across the floor, and crawled up the wall. Snatching the paper up with him, he rose to his feet and tore out the open window.

--------------------------------

"Where are you going, child?"

The man looked over his shoulder, into the back of the cart his horses were pulling along the road. The small boy was still slumped against a few sacks, his eyes half closed and a piece of paper clutched tightly in his shaking hands. "Hey," the one at the reins asked for the umpteenth time, his patience truly admirable, "are you okay?" The boy's teeth were chattering, and sweat glistened on his skin. It only accented the pasty gray of his face.

"Just," the child managed between shaking breaths that rattled so hard in his little chest that the driver of the horses feared it might break him, "tired. I'm… I'll go wherever you take me. Just… please." He shifted weakly against the sacks, a dismal action that made pity well up in the man's heart. "Don't make me leave. Please," he repeated. His neck lifted and his eyelids slid up. The driver could only imagine the effort it must have taken the fatigued boy. "I'm going away."

"Well, I can see that," he said, snapping the reins to make the horses pick up the pace.

A weak sound, something between a sick sing-song sound and a laugh, escaped the boy's mouth. It made the man frown and look back at him again, tearing his concentration from the road. "No," he choked. "You don't get it. I'm going away from me. From him. From the old me." He made a half-laugh sound again, this time a bit less berserk sounding. "I'm leaving the hate behind. I'm starting over."

There was something in his eyes that hadn't been there when he'd first stumbled up to the man looking like he was going to be sick and begging for a ride. Before, there had been only the thick texture of despair and pain. Now, some type of light permeated the suffering. It was hope – just a little, but it was easily recognizable.

"I'm starting over," he announced again.

The man up front nodded sincerely and told him he was glad to hear it. With that, the boy curled his knees up to his chest and in a moment, he was off in his own dreams. Something far off no doubt dancing around in his head. Something he wanted – something he had lost, or something he had never had, it didn't matter. The man had seen this type of person before, one so lost who had found their hope at long last. This boy was only beginning a spectacular journey, and it was going to hurt him like hell. It was going to hurt more than anything he had ever been through in his life. It was going to be like trudging through everything he had already experienced and back again, threefold. But in the end, it was going to pay off, and he was going to be the most amazing person. He would be virtually unstoppable, so strong and so happy and able to love life. And it wouldn't matter if he had yellow, slit eyes. It wouldn't matter if he'd accidentally killed anyone or anything. It wouldn't matter how many blasphemous words had passed his lips.

One day, the boy would be happy. That was all that mattered.


End file.
